


Strip Chess and Other Stories

by manic_intent



Series: The End of the World And Other Tall Stories [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen is not amused, Full spoilers, M/M, That fic where there's a different outcome to Here Lies the Abyss, Varric wishes that Hawke had better priorities, although it's somewhat delayed because a certain person is a bit of a lootwhore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Rumours of my death, Commander,” Hawke said dryly, though both his eyebrows rose this time, “Are greatly exaggerated, clearly.”</p><p>“But…” Cullen frowned. “Prove it. Prove that you’re Hawke.”</p><p>“… All right then,” Hawke pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Maker’s hairy balls. If I had known there was going to be <i>all</i> this drama when I fell out of that weird mirror in your storeroom, I’d have gone to hit up Varric for a drink rather than bothering to sneak up here to surprise you. How <i>do</i> you want me to prove it? Didn’t you have some sort of spirit expert mage about here the last time? Bald little elf, dresses like a homeless person-“</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strip Chess and Other Stories

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was spawned off twitter convos with @errantheart and comment discussions. The Sarcasm!Rogue!Hawke char was in my 2nd playthrough, where I used Alistair as a warden rather than Stroud, because I wanted to leave Hawke in the Fade but wasn’t sure if I could actually bring myself to do it. Intentionally breaking my heart for the sake of curiosity…

I.

The War Room was often empty now that the matter of Corypheus had been dealt with. Not that the Inquisition wasn’t as busy as ever, of course, but its cares no longer had to be sketched out in matters of boundaries and skirmishes, disputes and military exercises. More often than not, the Inquisitor simply shuttled between her advisors’ offices, and the War Table sat untouched since after their desperate push to the Arbor Wilds, months and what felt like an age ago.

Nowadays, Cullen came to the War Room to think. Scouts didn’t usually bother him in here, while he was open game in his office and the battlements beyond. His lyrium addiction had waned, but some days were better than most, and today wasn’t one of the good ones: there was an insistent headache that refused to go away, and a twitchy restlessness in his blood. 

He ran his gloved fingers over the painted table, from Ferelden to Orlais, now and then picking up a troop token, then putting it back down. The table _was_ a mess. Tokens from completed missions still littered its surface, even from long before the matter of the Arbor Wilds, and Cullen breathed in slowly, then out, as he glanced over at the little iron pyramid that still sat over Adamant Fortress.

Maker. Cullen’s last sight of Hawke had been of Hawke on the battlements, Cullen in the courtyard, Hawke laughing, teeth bared, beautiful and wild like the wolves whose fur he wore on his shoulders, dancing away from a rage demon, plunging his daggers into its molten flank, ripping up and to the side until its form collapsed into a superheated puddle. Hawke had seen him staring, smirked, blown a kiss, and stalked away, and Cullen had smiled to himself and thought, _maybe later tonight_. 

How wrong he had been. 

But the sense of loss that Cullen had felt had been nothing compared to Varric’s heartbreak and grief, and so he had said nothing, and nursed this hurt to himself as well, one among many, committed himself to the Inquisition and its war. But now that, too, was over, and in the long and unbroken shadows of an uneasy peace, Cullen had far too much space to linger on regrets. 

Impulsively, Cullen swept up the little pyramid and flung it hard at the wall, viciously pleased as it glanced off the stone and then bounced away under the table, then he instantly felt guilty about it, bending down to pick it up.

“Is _that_ what all of you do in this room all day? Toss those little tokens at the wall? I’ve been wondering.” 

Cullen jerked up in shock, banged his head on the base of the heavy table, yelped, and scrambled out on his knees, scrambling for his sword - which wasn’t there, still propped in the rack in his office. Dizzy, his head throbbing afresh, Cullen stared openmouthed at the wraith in the room.

Hawke arched an eyebrow, always with his smug amusement, one hip propped against the table, his arms folded, and he looked exactly like Cullen remembered, wolf fur, sleek black armour, twin blades. His beard seemed longer, his thick hair more unruly than ever, but Maker help him, just Hawke’s presence was enough to make Cullen’s heart quicken, as it always had. 

“Demon,” Cullen hissed, for what else could it be? Hawke was dead. 

Hawke rolled his eyes. “Is this how you greet long lost friends?”

“You’re… _Hawke_ is dead! The Inquisitor said he volunteered to be left in the Fade. It’s been _months_ ,” Cullen snarled, aware that his voice was rising but no longer caring, “There was a _funeral_.”

“Rumours of my death, Commander,” Hawke said dryly, though both his eyebrows rose this time, “Are greatly exaggerated, clearly.”

“But…” Cullen frowned. “Prove it. Prove that you’re Hawke.”

“… All right then,” Hawke pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Maker’s hairy balls. If I had known there was going to be _all_ this drama when I fell out of that weird mirror in your storeroom, I’d have gone to hit up Varric for a drink rather than bothering to sneak up here to surprise you. How _do_ you want me to prove it? Didn’t you have some sort of spirit expert mage about here the last time? Bald little elf, dresses like a homeless person-“

“Solas is gone.” Cullen interrupted, his doubt starting to waver. “Maybe… maybe Cole can tell. Or… or… you fell out of the _eluvian_?”

“Nasty things,” Hawke noted. “A friend of mine had one once. Such a bad idea that turned out to be. Just for your information. Might want to take a hammer to the one you have. Not that I’m not grateful that it got me out of the Fade, of course.”

“But… you were in the Fade _physically_. The place that the eluvian leads to doesn’t link to the physical Fade-“

“I’m sure the mages would _love_ to debate this matter forever,” Hawke interrupted. “But if you’re going to subject me to some sort of test, might want to do it quickly. If I’m not welcome here, I’m going to get that drink.”

“Wait here,” Cullen said quickly, and ducked out of the War Room. He took in a high, strangled breath, then stalked over to Josephine’s office.

She wasn’t there, but one of Leliana’s scouts was, delivering paperwork, and the scout looked up, startled, at Cullen’s sudden approach. 

“You. Go to the tavern. Find Cole. Get him to meet me at the War Room _now_. Understand?”

“… Yes sir,” the scout said, flustered into all but running for the door, and Cullen took in another deep breath before he returned to the War Room. 

Hawke was studying the table with interest, and didn’t bother to look up when Cullen walked back in, closing the door behind him. “So. Did we win?”

“Yes. Corypheus is dead.”

“How did that happen? Cut him into very, very small pieces? Oh! Was it acid? I had a little bet going with Varric. Put a sovereign down on acid and a sovereign down on…” Hawke frowned a little to himself, “Dragonfire, I think it was.” 

“You and Varric _bet_ on what it would take to kill Corypheus?”

“We bet on things _all_ the time. Keeps life interesting. So what was it? Acid? Dragonfire?” Hawke asked hopefully.

“Neither, as it turned out. His fake Archdemon had to be killed, then he could be killed.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hawke said, frowning. “Previously there was _no_ dragon, and we killed him, and he still came back. What did all of you do with the bits? It’s not too late to drop them into the sea.“

“Seems after that, the Inquisitor banished Corypheus into the Fade.”

“… Isn’t that what we _fought a war_ to prevent? Corypheus from entering the Fade?” 

Cullen hesitated. He _had_ had some lingering doubts over how Evelyn had handled the matter, as the young Inquisitor was brash and perhaps a little bloodthirsty, particularly where dragons were involved, but everything had seemed fine afterwards and Corypheus’ remaining forces had scattered and fled.

“Ah… it seems to have worked so far…”

“At least until the sky breaks open again!” 

“Besides, we had to prevent Corypheus from entering the Fade _physically_ to open the doors to the Black City, not just entering the Fade and… and… now you’re starting to make me doubt everything,” Cullen complained. “Thank you so _very_ much. I doubt I’m going to get any sleep tonight.”

“Other than that,” Hawke said, with a sigh, “What did I miss?” 

Cullen was in the middle of updating Hawke on what had happened at Halamshiral, with Gaspard assuming power and Celene being murdered by Florianne, when there was a faint knock on the door, and Cole let himself in. After becoming ‘more human’, or whatever it was, Cole was thankfully now less prone to appearing abruptly in the middle of a room, which Cullen was desperately thankful for. 

“Questions, concerns, curiosity,” Cole murmured, and Cullen grimaced. Unfortunately, becoming ‘human’, or whatever it is, hadn’t quite stopped Cole’s tendency to just blurt out whatever he was reading off people’s minds. The skinny boy-creature-thing tilted his head, glancing at Hawke. “Left behind. The demon’s too big. Ugly. Commit my soul to the Maker, if he can find it. Try anyway. Demon’s been hurt. And if it’s hurting, I can kill it.”

“That’s right,” Hawke narrowed his eyes, then looked pointedly at Cullen. “Mind reader? That’s new.”

“Cole’s… unusual.” Cullen let out a deep breath. “Maker. Is it really you?”

“Relief. So much pain before. Knelt to him in Kirkwall, never once regretted it-“

“Yes, yes, thank you Cole,” Cullen said hastily, flushing, and Cole blinked at Cullen in surprise, even as Hawke started to smirk. “You may go now.” 

“All right.” Cole murmured, ducking his head, turning to go, murmuring, “Veridium crystals. So many dreams. So much to see. Maybe a while longer.” 

“What?” Cullen asked, but Cole had already let himself out, and when he looked over to Hawke, there was a slightly guilty expression on his face. “‘Maybe a while longer’?”

“Ah,” Hawke coughed, “The Fade’s rather _fascinating_ , and did you know, there are _all_ these veridium crystals in it that turn into… stuff… when you touch them. Necklaces… little figurines… I even found a nice dagger-“

Cullen sucked in a deep breath. “ _Hawke_. Are you telling me. That you let me- that you let _us_ mourn you, bury you, and then fight Corypheus without you… _because you were busy looting crystals in the Fade_?”

“I didn’t know that much time was passing!” 

“Varric said that you’ve been in the Fade before!”

“And the last time I was there, when I came out again no time at all had passed! How was I to know things were different this time round? I don’t _actually_ make it a habit to poke my nose in there!” 

“Which sane man would linger in the Fade anyway? The _physical_ Fade?” Cullen snarled, rounding the table and grabbing Hawke by the fur of his armour. Hawke twisted in his grip, lips curling up into a snarl to match Cullen’s own, even as Cullen slammed him against the wall and then leaned over to shut him up, the kiss more of a bite than anything else, messy and with teeth, scouring Hawke’s lip. Hawke stiffened up, with an indignant sound, fingers raking up through the feather pauldrons on Cullen’s armour, then he bit Cullen hard enough that there was blood between them.

Cullen didn’t care. He didn’t pull away, hands settling over the stone beside Hawke’s shoulder and cheek, shuddering when Hawke licked apologetically into his mouth, softening the kiss, tipping up his chin and taking control.

“You’re irresponsible,” Cullen hissed when they parted for air, “And… and _incorrigible_ , and foolish, and quite possibly insane, and-“

“Heard it all before, believe me.” Hawke’s hands were petting up and down Cullen’s flanks, as though gentling him, and for one crazy moment Cullen wished he hadn’t been wearing armour today. 

“You’re a… a thief, a scoundrel, a blackguard and a thief-“

“You already said ‘thief’.” Hawke grinned as he kissed Cullen between the eyes, butterfly soft. “Also a rogue, a sometime pirate, a smuggler, a mercenary…” the kiss drifted lower, “An adventurer, an explorer, and all that.”

“A thief,” Cullen whispered, as Hawke’s lips brushed his, for years upon years ago Hawke had stolen from Cullen without, perhaps, even realizing that he had done so, with one of his lazy wolfish smiles and that look of wild mischief in his eyes.

Hawke made a low, humming sound in his throat, thumbs now stroking up over Cullen’s cheeks. “Why did you leave Kirkwall?”

“The Seeker… Cassandra recruited me. Said I had potential to do more for the world. _You_ left Kirkwall as well.”

“Had my own reasons.” A thumb pressed lightly over Cullen’s mouth, and he chased it briefly with his tongue, caught the knowing look in Hawke’s eyes and dropped his gaze. 

“Did you even notice when I left?” Cullen asked, and the rawness to his voice, all unintended, shamed him. This was an old ghost he thought long shackled, under the pain of his lyrium withdrawal, under the stress of his work with the Inquisition.

“I was not quite myself for some time.”

Cullen looked up sharply. The wildness in Hawke’s eyes was still there, but the wolf was wary, not playful, a little distant. “The apostate mage. Anders. He was your friend.”

“Yes.” There was a lie there, perhaps, or not quite a lie. What had happened to Anders had been a mystery: Cullen had heard reports ranging from Hawke having personally killed Anders, or having helped Anders escape, or having sent Anders away into the Deep Roads - no one had really gotten to the bottom of the matter. 

Now was not the time to ask, Cullen guessed, even as Hawke kissed him again, licking against his teeth until Cullen let him in, his hands growing restless, wandering over the rivets and leather plates of Hawke’s armour, over the cunningly wrought gauntlets, the thin scales of black enamelled steel. Hawke really _was_ here. Really was _alive_. The disbelief Cullen felt still weighed heavier than his relief: he felt dizzy with it, lightheaded, whimpering as Hawke walked him back towards the war table and shoved tokens blithely aside, pulling him up onto the table and guiding Cullen’s thighs around his waist.

“Going to fuck you,” Hawke whispered, something of a wolf’s guttural growl in his words as he nipped at Cullen’s lip, playful, for all that he tugged Cullen pointedly flush against him and rubbed his - Maker - his thickening arousal between Cullen’s thighs, and all Cullen could do was whine for it, for more. “Maybe here.”

“Yes-“

“Spread you on it and pull your ankles over my shoulders,” Hawke worried the skin over the pulse in Cullen’s throat with his teeth, then kissed it when Cullen let out a sobbed breath, hands clutching through Hawke’s fine dark hair. “Or bend you over it, make you hang on while I get my fill of you-“ 

The War Room’s door banged open, Varric storming in, trailing the Inquisitor behind him, then Leliana and Cassandra and Josephine.

“Oh! Oh my.” Josephine hastily backed away to the door, while Cassandra grimaced and Leliana covered her mouth with her hands, startled, then amused. Varric went white as a sheet, then he flushed, and blew out a long, slow breath, and slapped a hand over his face. 

“Doesn’t anyone _knock_ around here?” Hawke complained, even as Cullen ducked his head into Hawke’s shoulder and wished that the ground would swallow him whole.

“I _said_ we should knock,” Evelyn said, a little plaintively. “Sorry. _Sorry_.”

“It’s _your_ War Room, Inquisitor,” Varric muttered. “ _Honestly_ , Hawke. Your priorities. _Honestly_.” 

“I cried at the funeral,” Evelyn added, as though Varric hadn’t said anything. 

Through the corners of his eyes, Cullen could see Hawke fighting a grin. “Another time then, Commander,” Hawke murmured into his ear, then he was pulling away, jaunty again, as though he hadn’t just been caught red-handed with Cullen up against the war table. “Glad to see that all of you made it out of that mess in one piece. Come on, Varric. I _was_ going to get a drink with you next.”

“I wasn’t asking for you to come running into my arms,” Varric scowled, though he allowed a hand on his shoulder and let Hawke turn him about towards the door. “Just a ‘Hey, Varric, look, I’m not dead!’ would have been _nice!_ ” 

Self-consciously, Cullen slipped off the table as Hawke and Varric disappeared into the corridor, tailed by Cassandra, and set about rearranging the tokens back where they were instead of looking up. “Ah,” Josephine coughed. “I suppose I have some missives to read.” 

“And I.” Two sets of feet walked briskly away. 

“He’s a bit of an arse, isn’t he?” Evelyn asked, humour bright in her voice, and when Cullen dared to look up, her smile was playful rather than mocking, and he sighed, rubbing a palm over his face.

“‘A bit’?” 

Padding over, Evelyn clapped Cullen on the arm. “But he’s alive. That’s something to be glad for. Just…” Evelyn hesitated. “Watch your fingers.”

“… What in the Maker’s name has Varric been telling you about Hawke?”

II.

Cullen couldn’t really face his office, his bedroom or the War Room, and walking aimlessly, found himself in the one chamber of Skyhold that everyone usually avoided like the plague - the store room with the eluvian. The mirror was still, looking deceptively like slightly cloudy old glass.

He stared at it for a long moment, then he sighed and toed over an old box to one of the covered crates, and carefully opened his chess set on top of it. He set up the pieces deftly, rested his cheek against a palm, and started to play.

One game down to a standstill - Cullen was resetting the pieces when the door opened with a soft creak, and Hawke slipped inside the chamber, his smirk lopsided with that gorgeous look of mischief, his swagger as wolfish as ever, tugging out a curl of heat in Cullen’s belly just to look at it. 

“Chess? Didn’t think you for the sort.” Hawke padded around Cullen, shooting the eluvian only a cursory glance.

“You clearly don’t know much about me, then.” The words didn’t have the bite that they would’ve had, just an hour ago: Cullen was tired now. “You never used to speak to me unless you had to.”

“Yes, yes. I’m a very shallow person. Don’t believe what you read in Varric’s books.” Hawke pushed over another small box, and sat down opposite Cullen, helping him reset the pieces.

“Do you play?” 

“It’s been a while. My usual chess partner decided that she’d rather go ravage the seas as a pirate admiral.”

“ _Isabela_ played chess?”

“Not that much to do aboard a pirate ship outside of chores and repairs and such, I hear. Besides,” Hawke added, “We used to drink while we did it and play for stakes. Made it fun.”

“So you don’t play for the fun of it?”

“We’re scoundrels and blackguards. We never do things just for the fun of it.” Hawke grinned, something predatory there, something challenging, and Cullen felt moved to ask, “What sort of stakes?”

“I don’t think you would be up for it.”

“Oh really? Try me.”

“Same sort of stakes as Varric likes to play for in Wicked Grace. He got us into the habit, actually.” Hawke smirked, as though expecting Cullen to back down.

Clearly, Varric had been making free with every _single_ story he had about Cullen. But then again… “This isn’t Wicked Grace. You’re on.” 

An hour later, Hawke was fighting a desperate rearguard battle with his rooks and Queen, while Cullen’s patient defense had turned into a net, crowding a tide over the board. He’d lost his pauldrons and his boots and gloves, but Hawke was down to his undershirt, breeches and bracers: had his armour not turned out to be so intricate, the man would probably be naked by now. 

Well. There were still pieces on the board. Cullen took one of Hawke’s rooks with a knight, and Hawke sighed mournfully, staring at the board. “You’re merciless.” 

“You’re the one who wanted to play.”

“No one warned me that you were so good at it.” 

“I’m the Commander of the Inquisition. Strategy can’t be a foreign concept to me.”

Hawke let out another sigh, and instead of taking off one of his bracers, as Cullen thought, he pulled off his undershirt. Except for an amulet, Hawke’s skin was bare under it, and Maker, it was just as Cullen remembered, velvety and taut over lean muscle. A few scars marred the skin here and there, and Cullen studied one ugly one, the white knot of old tissue angled up against Hawke’s ribs. He hadn’t thought to ask about these, the last time - they’d had no time at all in the morning-

“Hey,” Hawke said, breaking him out of his daze. “It’s your turn.”

Cullen glanced at the board, and rolled his eyes. “Cheating now, are we?”

Hawke didn’t even bother to deny it. “Was worth a shot.” Innocently, he replaced the bishop he had swiped off the board back on its tile. “Since you didn’t seem to be paying attention any more.”

“Oh, I’m paying attention.” Cullen said dryly, and swiftly decimated Hawke’s forces in the next few moves, for all that his eyes kept trailing back up to all that bared skin, and in the end, he sat back, folded his arms and smirked when Hawke conceded defeat, armour and gear all stacked up against the wall. 

“Just for your information, I”m entirely shameless about being naked,” Hawke said, amused even in defeat.

“I thought so.” Cullen pushed himself up from his seat, circling over to kneel down before Hawke. It was worth the discomfort of stone against his knees just to see the look of surprise in Hawke’s eyes, and he allowed himself a faint smirk of his own as he stroked palms up over Hawke’s sturdy thighs. “Winner takes all?”

“Mm. I’m entirely shameless about _that_ as well. Whatever you like.” 

“It’ll give you an incentive to up your chess game.” Cullen dared to lean over, to press a kiss over Hawke’s firming cock, and Hawke sucked in a soft, harsh gasp. 

He tried to fit the thickening cap in his mouth, wary of his teeth, but Hawke was thick enough that Cullen couldn’t quite fit any more past his tongue without choking, licking at what he could and using a spit-slicked hand on the rest. Hawke’s elegant hands were restless on his hair, on his cheeks, while he bit out a low string of hoarse curses and then a rich, deliciously wolfish chuckle, when Cullen tried to suck. There was a bitter, salty taste on his tongue, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and as Cullen licked harder on the slit in his mouth, the taste thickened, and Hawke groaned, hips twitching into Cullen’s grasp and choking him.

“Sorry,” Hawke murmured, and Cullen pulled back, then Hawke was slipping off the crate, shoving Cullen back to straddle his hips, chasing his own taste in Cullen’s mouth. Deft fingers were unlacing his breeches, drawing him out and stroking him lazily, then Hawke was leaning away, hooking over his belt, tugging out a corked potion vial from the pouches. 

“You don’t have to-“ Cullen’s protest was swallowed in a kiss, then another, and he gave in, resting his hands on Hawke’s hips as Hawke greedily plundered his mouth, lust leaking in through the fine weave of Hawke’s usual self-control. Cullen’s breathing was stuttering by the time Hawke tossed the potion bottle aside and rubbed slick, cool fingers over Cullen’s bared cock, then Hawke reared back and smirked at him as he reared back and up onto his knees. 

“Told you. Shameless.” Hawke said breathlessly, as he guided Cullen up into him, and Cullen gasped out a curse of his own at the sudden tight clench over him, the vise-tight glove of heat, Maker-

“Sweet Andraste,” Cullen whispered, unable to recognise the thin, broken whine as his own voice, and Hawke was laughing as he settled down, something wild, something rough, hands balanced over Cullen’s shoulders, flexing as he ground his way down; it was better than Cullen could ever have imagined. “This isn’t real.” 

“Here we go again,” Hawke grinned at him, something savage now, something fond. “What do you want me to do this time?” He caught the flesh of Cullen’s ear with his teeth, tugged until Cullen whimpered, then licked wetly against the shell. “Pinch you? Sing a string of Hail Andrastes? Or… I have a better idea.” Hawke rolled his hips, and Cullen gasped, his heels scraping against the stone as he jerked. “Maybe I’ll just ride you until you forget your name.” 

“You’re confident for… ugh… someone who just got soundly beaten at chess.”

“Ah,” Hawke’s grin was totally feral now, as he lifted himself up lazily by his knees then slammed back down, hard enough that he shifted Cullen up a fraction of an inch against the cold stone, “But _this_ isn’t chess.” 

Cullen let out a startled laugh that edged into a stuttering groan as Hawke proceeded to make good on his boast, riding Cullen with a breed of savage hunger against the stone, bruising them both, mouth buried against Cullen’s throat, shoulders occasionally shaking, whether with lust or with laughter Cullen could not tell; it felt like he was getting touched by Hawke’s own wildness as his hands tightened on Hawke’s hips and he thrust desperately up against Hawke’s rhythm, sometimes out of place, sometimes perfectly in sync, the wet, obscene sounds of this particular game loud and filthy about them. 

Hawke grunted when Cullen managed to get a hand between them to stroke him, his back arching as Cullen squeezed tight and _tugged_ , rubbing the foreskin slickly over the reddened cap and back, until Hawke was laughing again, this time breathlessly, as he spent himself over Cullen’s fingers, over his breastplate and mail and surcoat, laughing as Cullen dragged him down to kiss him, to take all that was untamed about Hawke against him and drink down his lust, to hold him still as Cullen spilled himself inside the tight clench of Hawke’s flesh. 

“What a mess,” Hawke purred, still catching his breath, as he swiped a thumb and index finger up through the mess over Cullen’s armour and popped his fingers into his mouth, smirking when Cullen flushed at the sight of it and bit down a moan. 

“Sorry… not the best of places to, um.”

“Have a fantastic round of sex?” Hawke supplied, with a devilish smile, and Cullen groaned. 

“It would’ve been more comfortable, ah, in my chambers.”

“That, my dear Commander,” Hawke drawled, “Is what second rounds are for.”

III.

“Seeker Cassandra is a scary woman,” Hawke confided to Varric, once they were holed up safely in an old watchtower of the Keep with a small keg of beer and two mugs.

“What happened now?”

“She hauled me into the smithy and went on and on at length about the dangers of the Fade, and then she made me sign a copy of your _Tale of the Champion_ which had a huge hole through it! What does that even _mean_? Is it a Nevarran threat?”

Varric guffawed. “No, no. Our Seeker’s a bit of a fan, that’s all.”

“A fan of what? Threatening people?”

“A fan of you, actually. And me.”

There was a long pause, then, mystified, Hawke said, “Well, I guess I’ve never tried sleeping with a human woman _and_ a male dwarf at the same time before-“

“Oh for the Maker’s… Hawke… I…” Varric rubbed a hand over his face even as Hawke burst out laughing. “How is it that your brain always instantly goes _straight_ to the gutters? I _meant_ that she’s a fan of my _books_ and you _happened to be in one of the books_ , and so.” He sighed explosively. “I don’t know why I bothered to make you famous.”

“Even _more_ famous,” Hawke corrected. “I was already famous.”

“You also still have an ego the size of Skyhold,” Varric said dryly, and pulled out his notebook. “Well then. Tell me what happened to you in the Fade. How _did_ you get out?”

“Want me to give you the truth or tell you a huge crock of nugshit?”

“Ah,” Varric smiled, as Hawke poured them both a mug of beer from the stolen keg, “Whichever one’s a better story, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter; manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


End file.
